


Us (And Our Shadows)

by mugsandpugs



Series: A Matched Set [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Bottom Erik Lehnsherr, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Navel-Gazing, Parent/Child Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-01 19:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: “So. My darling father intends to screw me.”“Well, since everyone else has had a turn, I thought I’d get in line.”





	Us (And Our Shadows)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYb4X3GVFII)
> 
> Mind the tags.

****After a morning in town, Erik sorted his purchases, placing perishable foods in the refrigerator and leaving all the other groceries and household items on the counter for the twins to handle. He was a busy man, and didn’t much care how his offspring chose to divy their rations. It must still be a step up from the dumpsters they’d been scrounging in like rats when he’d tracked them down.

Not that he hadn't been a scrounging rat himself, once, of course. But that was so long ago...

Erik was a man who would devestate and better the world. In comparison, playing Little House in the Countryside with his children felt far beneath him. But his little family was at an awkward stage in their agenda. For the time being, staying under the radar was vital. Erik had no staff to send out for him. Until plans could be set in motion, it was only the three of them in this cottage, and he didn’t trust the twins not to draw attention to themselves, so most errands fell on his shoulders after all.

From the groceries, it was only the smallest of the paper bags he took with him when he strode confidently down the hallway, his heavy boots falling smartly on the wooden floors as he approached his son’s bedroom, giving only the briefest of knocks before pushing the door open.

Where Wanda’s bedroom was perpetually cluttered and disorganized, Pietro kept his tiny patch of existence Spartan-neat; having deliberately only stolen furniture that maximized light and space to give it an airy feel, despite the close quarters. Already, Erik felt several degrees cooler just by standing in the threshold.

Pietro, sat at his desk, no doubt working on one of the many assignments Erik had given him, bristled like a cat at his privacy being invaded. There was something felid in the boy's posture, his spine; the way it rolled as though containing so many more bones than it ought. If he’d had claws, they would surely be popping from his nail-beds about now.

“Father,” he greeted stiffly, rising from his chair and turning in one fluid movement, the jumpy thing. He never liked to have his back to anyone. Wise, really.

Erik looked his son up and down, inscruitable as ever. Pietro seemed out of place in this small, country home: something in the way he presented himself, in the way he combed and styled his shock of dove-white hair, perhaps; or the way he pressed his clothes and always buttoned his shirts to the very top. Maybe just the simple way his icy blue eyes seemed so round in his youthful face. It was as though he considered himself above his lot in life: a resentful seraphim degraded to life with mortals.

There was just something disagreeable about his son that made Erik Lehnsherr want to grind his pointy, superior little face in mud. To remind him that, while he may be an evolved being, he was still an insect, and the world was forever a shoe ready to come stomping down on pretty, shiny exoskeletons.

One never had to wait long for Pietro to crack. Unlike his stony gargoyle of a sister, who’s resolve hardened in stillness, Pietro found the very act of unmoving silence to be torture. Pose interrupted, he began to fidget under his father’s heavy stare. “Was there something you needed, Father? How was town?”

Even the way he spoke was irritating. For reasons only God knew, he’d deliberately sanded down his rough Polish vowels and consonants, attempting to give himself a generic American accent and, for the most part, succeeding. Erik tilted his chin in mild distaste and upended the small paper bag over the foot of Pietro’s bed by way of reply.

When he forgot to pose like an adult, Pietro appeared infinitely younger than his years of hardship should rightfully allow. He reached and held up the orange box of Durex, size large, with a quizzical arch to one silver-spun eyebrow.  “Condoms?”

“One can never be too careful.”

Pietro looked dubious. Erik didn’t need to be a telepath to guess his thoughts: _Only one of your children is capable of getting pregnant, and you still fucked_ her  _raw._

“Naturally,” Erik began, as always keeping his voice and face blank. “With your healing and regenerative abilities, I’ve no doubt you managed to stave off the worst of mankind's diseases, but I’ve not yet ruled you out as a _carrier_ for them.”

Pietro blinked, then went pink around the ears. It was no secret that he’d paid for housing and bread by sinking to his knees in alleyways behind bars, beneath car-rattled bridges; in the sort of hotel rooms where sheets were never changed and showers were never scrubbed.

“I’m clean,” Pietro protested hoarsely.

“Mm.”

To distract himself from this devastating and highly skeptical syllable, Pietro looked at the rest of the items on his bed. “The morning-after pill?”

“That’s not for you. Well, not directly. I assume you _don’t_ wish to become the uncle of a sibling?”

Pietro shook his head no, twitching his disgust, and set the blister-pack aside to treat Wanda later. That left only one final product.

“Ah,” Pietro realized, attempting to inject a hint of humor into his expression. Only half of his mouth could be coerced into doing so: It folded up in a puppet’s tired grimace. “ _This,_ I am more familiar with.”

The bottle of unscented, store-brand lubricant he held glinted, clear in the weak morning sun piercing through his shabbily curtained window. He held it in one manicured hand like he might a teacup and, when he locked eyes with his father again, Erik saw that his guard was up in full force. “So. My darling father intends to screw me.”

“Well, since everyone else has had a turn, I thought I’d get in line.”

Now it was Pietro’s turn to curl his thin lips into a mocking little smirk, closer to a bestial snarl than any human expression.

Erik caught a glimpse of the two of them together in the tarnished little mirror propped above Pietro’s bureau. He was unsettled to see that they were standing in much the same position: stiff and proper as soldiers, their chins tilted at precisely the same angle. In the morning light, their features were more similarities than differences: high cheekbones; proud and generous noses; thick brows; angular blue eyes. And that was before the colorlessness of their hair and the identical olive shade of their smooth, clear skin was addressed.

The family resemblance was undeniable, and it made Erik feel odd. He’d always seen Pietro as some snivelling little thing, but this close it was apparent he wasn’t very small at all. His son had become a man sometime in the moments between blinks.

After a moment of silence, Pietro made a small gesture, a sort of waggle-fingered bow and a gesticulation to his body all at once. The smirk hadn’t gone anywhere, but Erik now saw it for what it was: a mask of protection, his eyes already having lost their focus. If he’d had Charles to scan the boy’s brain, he suspected he’d learn of iron walls being built up, a deliberate fortress of dissociation. He had put the real Pietro to bed and now the being that spoke with him was little more than an autopiloted dummy.

“Well then. Ravish me, oh Father.” He didn’t make any move to approach or strip. His sarcasm was very faint, but recognizable. “It’s not as though I could stop you.”

Oh, he thought it would be that easy, did he? He thought that by laying back and thinking of Poland while his father played the role of a Roman on a Sabine village, grunting, beastly until spent, in his ear, he could escape liability?

He certainly had more bravado in the morning light, in the confidence of his own space, than he had curled up and crying the night before. Erik had no doubt he’d coached himself on how he should behave when this moment arose: Remain lofty, remain dispassionate, and perhaps he could escape with his heart unscathed. It wasn’t a bad plan, but it wasn’t what Erik wanted.

Well, no matter. Erik was a patient man.

“I think not,” he said, and flicked his eyes disdainfully up and down his son’s frame, letting his disappointment seep from every pore. It wasn’t difficult to do. “Perhaps I’ll be in the mood for a taste of the common later.”

Sometimes he wondered if his cruelty was less educational and veering more towards truly harmful. Any efforts to toughen the boy had clearly not succeded. Their world was too sharp for soft things like Pietro Maximoff. Perhaps it was time to toughen him in a different way.

Without another word, Erik turned his back and left the room.

 

##

Erik's son did not come to him for three more days. On the fourth day, he was disrupted in his bedroom by a silver-haired figure in his doorway, hesitant and uncertain. Pietro was always a flight risk; always a hair's bredth from sprinting off to God-knew-where. He'd run away dozens of times since his father's recruitment, and he returned every time, allegedly only for his sister.

Sometimes Erik had his doubts. For one, if he wanted to run so badly and could not bear to leave her behind, why did he not take her with him? Something else kept Pietro coming back to this place, reminding Erik that even the strongest elephant needed no more than a flimsy rope to keep it entrapped, so long as it _believed_ that it wore a heavy chain.

"Yes?" Erik asked, stacking paperwork on his desk, glancing over his reader glasses at his son.

Pietro fidgeted. Licked his lower lip. Straightened his posture, and then dropped it again. Erik saw that he rose and fell gracefully on the balls of his feet like a dancer awaiting his cue, a perpetual motion machine. "I'm here about the--" he began; and seemed to think better of it, nearly tripped over his own words as he overcorrected. "You wanted--" No, that wasn't it, either. Erik's patience wore thin as he watched those blue eyes dart this way and that; as Pietro's body blurred and then became solid once more, the change of air circulation the only indication that he'd sprinted an anxious lap. It was tiresome just watching him.

"You wanted me to fuck you?"

Another blur of motion, this time in the opposite direction. The hairs on Erik's arm stood on end from the whooshing. Truly, Quicksilver was jittery.

"How do you suppose to get inside me if you can't even hold still?" Erik asked, and was gratified to see his son freeze all over, his legs and hips and torso and arms and face all going the way of stone. A moment passed.

Pietro's mouth moved as though he wanted to smile, but had forgotten how. “You want me to--”

“To fuck me, yes.”

“But I’ve never--”

“I am aware.”

That he was taking this piece of Pietro’s virginity, he’d already known when he’d decided to have him this way. It would be too easy to take the boy in the way he expected. This wrench in the plans, though? This was _interesting._ Erik didn’t mind being taken sexually, and the scientist in him wanted to push Pietro out of his comfort zone just to see what made him tick.

“Unless, of course, you don’t feel you’re man enough to do so,” he goaded after a charged moment wherein his son gawked at him, slightly boggle-eyed. A jab; nothing more. A person’s proclivities in the bedroom had little at all to do with their personality, in Erik’s experience… But Pietro was both young and insecure enough to have his doubts.

Perhaps he would decline altogether. Wouldn’t _that_ be a most fascinating outcome? Erik thought he might even feel a little respect for his son if he had the balls to refuse this entirely… Though he knew the likelihood of that happening was slim to none. Pietro was twice as affection-starved as Wanda, and only half as willful. If he thought this act could earn him love, he’d go through with it. He must have been warring in a vicscious cycle of guilt and envy ever since he'd caught his twin sister in bed with their father, many nights before.

Pietro licked his surely dry lips, caught completely off guard, and shifted his stance. “This is truly what you want?” he clarified. “I-- I will, then.”

Erik smiled thinly at the quaver in his voice, standing from his desk. “Well? I don’t have all day.”

He crossed to and then sat on his bed, feeling the sun touch his back from the window, and felt quite neutrally calm as his son pretended to be just as unaffected. Pietro stood before him and shifted his weight, and Erik was reminded of when Pietro was small; fearing an imminent scolding. He’d hated to wait back then, too, even before his powers had emerged.

“Well,” Pietro said. “Where to start? Do I kiss you?” He asked this with a little smile, as though half joking, but the trepidation was still there. “Did you start by kissing Wanda?”

Erik hadn’t kissed Wanda at all-- a fact that had her avoiding eye contact with him for days. She’d been very quiet since their time together.

“Kissing me is unnecessary,” Erik said. “I don’t need to be seduced. Come here.” He hadn’t meant to give an order-- had actually intended to let Pietro squirm and second-guess himself into action, any action; very likely an incorrect action. But it just came so natural, commanding this spineless thing like the puppet he was.

Obeying came naturally to Pietro, too. He stood before his father, a flash of relief eminent in his eyes. When Erik reached to take his face in hands, he sighed.

Erik touched his son’s soft, silver hair, then curled round his ears, thumbs stroking the lobes. “You took your earrings out,” he observed, feeling the dip of scars in flesh where the metal studs should have been.

“Was that wrong?” Pietro asked, allowing himself to be inspected like livestock at a market. “I didn’t know if, in passion, you’d ever lost control. I don’t want you to damage my ears.”

“I’ve never lost control quite so badly. If I hurt someone, it’s deliberate.”

Pietro blanched a little, and Erik added, “I will refrain from altering metal if you attempt to temper your speed. Today I come to you as a man, not a mutant.”

“That is agreeable.”

Funny, how Pietro tended to take on the speech patterns and cadance of whomever he spoke with. What a funny silver mirror he was.

“Did you know that many couples convicted of incest just so happen to have no sense of smell?” Erik asked conversationally, still stroking his son's hair. “Anosmia, it’s called. It's suspected that familial pheromones repulse potential couples. You're biologically designed to be disgusted by the notion of fucking your kin. Just imagine how many more people would, were scent not a factor.”

Pietro snorted at this, still leaning into his father’s hands on his face. “What does that say about you and I, then? We both have a perfectly servicible sense of smell, yet here we are.”

“I don’t think the two of us can be explained by any science. Undress, please.”

Pietro stripped, and made no show of it; didn’t embarrass himself by trying to be alluring; enticing. Perhaps he did understand their relationship after all. This wasn’t about getting off, not really. It was about power, and filling a void.

At last Pietro stood naked before the bed, posture seemingly confident while his eyes betrayed his true vulnerability. He wanted his father to look, but feared what he might see.

If there was one thing that could be said in Pietro’s favor, it was that his body looked like the activity it'd been born to do, and that activity was to _run_. Such a beautiful tool his body was. Golden skin showcased wiry muscles and fine bones. He was a near hairless, streamlined machine that would have pleased any self-respecting Renaissance artist.

Erik propped himself up on his elbow and studied him from calf to throat, then back down again, a stirring of pride in his chest. _I made this. This is mine._

Pietro’s cock, too, was a fine thing. Beautiful and proportionate, like all the rest of him; flacid in a nest of curled silver hair. It was the sort of cock that demanded to be sucked and kissed and coaxed to full hardness. It looked, Erik realized with a surprised little ding in the back of his mind, very much like his own cock.

Somehow, this realization amused him greatly. Bodies, in his experience, were startling funhouse mirrors. One never knew what pieces of generations past they’d reflect, and what they’d distort, and what would remain the same.

Making a decision, Erik scooted back further on the bed until he was lying propped on his pillows, feeling the hum of the iron bedframe without actually touching it. “Bring that cock over here," Erik requested, with enough of a rumble in his voice to make his son shiver. “I want it in my mouth.”

Catlike; spine a sinuous and fluid movement with bendy legs and curling phalanges, Pietro crawled up the length of the bed until Erik gripped him by the hips and hauled him onto his chest. Once Pietro was sat astride him, a pleasurably warm and solid weight, Erik exhaled hotly on the turgid organ. Giving head was a Lehnsherr specialty; one that Erik knew he excelled in. He could eat pussy and ass like a glutton, and suck dick like it was going out of style. Perhaps being ambitious and greedy was a benefactor in the bedroom. He wanted everything a partner could give him, and so he held nothing back.

Erik pursed his lips and kissed the head of that fine organ, then darted his tongue out to lap at the salty slit, curling around to twang his frenulum like a guitar string.

Pietro hissed softly, both hands braced on the ornately wrought headboard, looking down at his father with some concern.

“Do not be gentle with me,” Erik commanded, the only warning offered before he covered his teeth with his lips, and slapped both of Pietro’s buttocks hard enough to make him thrust. Ah, bliss. To be choked by cock. It was enough to close his eyes and swallow, swallow, _swallow_ , bulging his throat to choke down as much as possible.

Pietro stifled a cry through clenched teeth, his hips giving helpless little thrusts. A second slap from his father had him bucking again, and Erik breathed hard through his nose, willing his gag reflex to calm before he embarassed himself.

With a moan, Pietro gave himself over to the assault of sensation: Relentless suction and the swirling of a skilled tongue, a hot, velvet-lined throat drawing him down deep and bidding him stay. He rolled his hips, fucking into his father’s throat, heavy testicals slapping Erik’s chin. Faster and faster, and then too fast; inhumanly fast.

“No, you may not cum,” Erik declined, pulling away and watching a viscous trail of precum obscenely bridge his swollen lips to his son’s weeping cock. His voice was a raw and hoarse wreck now after the brutal fucking it’d just endured. He lightly batted at the spit-gleamed organ, causing it to bob like a fishing lure. “That’s going to go inside me now.”

Pietro, wide-eyed, shivering violently from head to toe, gasped like a landed fish as he staved off orgasm. He gripped his base tightly, perhaps urging himself away from the brink. Erik wished Pietro was wearing his earrings; he would have given the metal a warning tug.

“Get my cock out, Pietro,” he ordered, by way of distraction.

Pietro slung a leg over his father and knelt by his side, lowering his gaze as he reached for Erik’s trousers, which he unbelted, unsnapped, and unzipped.

He touched Erik’s erection through his silken underwear, pressing firmly with his palm and feeling him up. It felt good, but this was clearly autopilot: something Pietro had done so often it’d become second nature. “What a whore you are,” Erik croaked, watching him. “It’s a miracle you aren’t loose from all the cocks shoved into your sloppy holes. Is it any wonder I don’t want to fuck them?”

Pietro looked at him, pure hurt etched in every line of his face. It was a miracle Erik’s words still managed to strike him after all this time. Hadn't he formed any calluses at all? How could he possibly exist this way: exposed, raw nerves ripe for the plucking each and every time? Clearly Erik had not done his duty as a father, if his son still wore so much of his heart on his sleeve.

“I fucked men for money,” Pietro pointed out. “Because we were starving. Because you _left_ us.”

So sensitive…

“Do you think I am hard on you?” Erik questioned. “That I’m cruel? Unfair? Do you wish I’d been a softer father?”

Pietro said nothing, his lips becoming a thin, flat line. Without a word, he resumed tugging Erik’s trousers and underwear down his hips and legs before starting on the buttons of his shirt. Fucking was, after all, much easier than speaking. Erik wasn’t hard, not yet, but he was certainly _interested._

“I just don’t see why you have to be such a monster. You’ve got what you wanted, right? You have Wanda and I, in every way. Why not enjoy us now?”

_Oh, I am, little one. I do._

“Wild stallions often choose mates that resemble their mothers,” Erik said instead. “It’s a preference of theirs. Of course that’s been observed in other species as well, but it’s very obvious among horses, with their unique coats and markings. Did you ever find yourself choosing men who resemble me in some way? My shape? My voice?”

The widening of Pietro’s eyes was answer enough. He’d been seen right through.

“Don’t feel too badly. It’s not so unusual in people, either. We want what is familiar.” _We’re broken at an early age and we seek out those who will continue to break us in all the ways that taste like home._

Pietro’s eyes were unreadable as he thought this over. Erik wondered if he’d be counterquestioned: Did _he_ ever seek out young things with intense blue eyes and strong, tall frames? Perhaps slap their bottoms and demand to be called ‘daddy’? Evidently, Pietro decided he did not want to know. He said only, “I had no idea that sex with you would be so educational,” and left it at that.

He bent and swiped his tongue over his father’s balls, then nibbled at his inner thigh.

“Enough,” Erik growled. “Don’t play with me; I'm not a toy. Just fuck me.” With a wave of his fingers, he rolled a bedside drawer open on metal hinges, and the metal-capped bottle of lubricant hit his palm with a slap. He drizzled some onto his palm-- plain and clear-- and, without preamble, inserted one and then two fingers inside himself with nary a wince.

Pietro watched with raised eyebrows. “Not one for foreplay?”

“I find it tedious and mildly insulting.”

Pietro looked like he wanted to laugh. Instead, he took his father’s hand and pushed it away, scraping extra lube from the older man’s palm with his fingertips. He warmed the gel between his hands and pushed two careful fingers into his father's yielding body, twisting, quirking.

Erik allowed his head to fall back as Pietro deftly found his prostate and gave it a firm stroke. Oh, it was good, alright; good as ever. Just this side of aching.

Pietro fucked him on slow fingers, angling his wrist and thrusting in so well that Erik wondered if he’d not done this before, after all. His hips were beginning to rock with the movement. He wondered if he could, given enough time, come from this alone.

A third finger was added; the stretch uncomfortable but not unbearable. More lube was applied. Pietro was certainly not hesitant to use it. The sheets would need a washing, after. “Is this acceptable? Are you stretched enough?”

“Can you not tell?”

“I’m not… I don’t like to hurt the people I fuck.”

“Oh, how noble. Hand me my kerchief; I’ve a tear in my eye.”

Pietro’s hand on his father’s hip tightened in annoyance. t made Erik smile. If the boy was that easy to goad, he might prove to be good fun indeed.

"Condom?" Erik reminded his son, and saw that zing of hurt in Pietro's eyes, recalling their conversation about diseases the last time. Still, he obediantly rolled the condom on without protest before approaching again.

He didn't enact revenge by shoving himself forcefully inside, not like Erik might have done. He was gentlemanly slow about it, lining himself up and sinking his cock into his father with a familiar old stretch Erik had not felt in years. Erik felt a rumble of sound rise in his throat, and he let it free, sighing, fingers tightening on the blanket below him.

They waited a time-- a long moment for Erik; an eternity for Quicksilver-- before the older man clenched hard around the intrusion, causing his son to gasp. “Well? Are you going to fuck me, or are you just going to stand there and admire the view?”

Pietro’s hands were cool as they ghosted his ribcage. He was treating him, if not _tenderly,_ then at least cautiously.

“I’m not made of glass, chłopczyk. You needn’t fear breaking me.” Erik’s voice emerged warmer than he’d intended. The poor sapling couldn’t help but be soft; it was in his nature. He had too much of his mother in him.

And so Pietro began to move, uncertain at first before finding a stride.

“This is new for me,” he said apologetically, and Erik could have laughed out loud at that. That had sort of been the point, no?

“Is that an excuse?” Erik inquired. “‘Sorry for the mediocre fuck, papa; I don’t usually top,’?”

Again, that hurt shone clear as day. Perhaps Erik was digging too deep, searching for a well of reserves that just wasn’t there. Perhaps Pietro really _didn’t_ have any of his father’s blood in him. Perhaps this was all a waste of time. Erik pushed at Pietro’s chest. “Get out. We’re done here.” A true disappointment, through and through.

Pietro stilled, eyes wide and confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s not something you did, so much as what you are.”

This did nothing to lessen the confusion. “And what… am I?”

Erik shook his head in clear dismissal. “Not enough, is what you are. You may leave.”

“You weren’t like this when you had Wanda,” Pietro pointed out, annoyance breaking through his voice now that he no longer had to look his father in the eye. “Why do you treat us so differently?! Is it our genders?”

“Your genders mean nothing to me,” Erik said, and that was more or less the truth. Wanda, by virtue of being female, was prone to hysteria and superstition and willfulness, but because she was so powerful, that was almost cancelled out. Pietro, whom he might have hoped to be stoic and strong as a proper man should, was weaker in every way. Perhaps they’d gotten crossed somewhere in the womb; inverted, somehow. His children were disappointments in theory. In actuality, they were perfect for Erik’s uses.

“Honestly, half the time I can barely tell you two apart,” he said, and alright, that was stretching the truth. He was only indifferent; not blind. "I Just differentiate you by whomever has recently disappointed me the most."

The stark disbelief on Pietro's face lasted only a moment before he shouldered it away, leaving a blank slate; a pure nothing. "Fuck this,” Pietro snarled in pure hate, bearing his teeth and leaning close. “And fuck _you._ ”

He ripped the used condom away, tossing it onto the floor before grabbing one of Erik’s legs and bending it up to his chest. He gripped his now bare cock with one hand and fumbled until he found his father’s lube-slicked hole, shoving himself inside with little concern for gentleness.

This blatant disobedience was unexpected. Unacceptable.  _Thrilling._

Erik, caught completely off guard, threw his head back with a moan, erection plumping with blood so rapidly that it slapped his stomach and quivered, smearing fluid across his naval.

“You like that, papa?” Pietro sneered breathlessly. “You like your little boy fucking you raw with my filthy whore’s cock? How many men have sucked me? How many men have _touched_ me? Does it make you jealous that you couldn’t have been the first? Maybe you should have stuck around. You could have raped me sooner.”

The stretch of a thick cock in his underprepared hole was painful, and it was so good. Erik felt every sensation with his fingers wrapped tight around the iron bars of the headboard. His son wasn’t anywhere close to his prostate. There was no pleasure in this: Only the burn and the stretch. And that just about made it  _perfect._

“Move,” Erik gasped, attempting to spread his legs. Pietro refused to release his knee; to concede any such control.

“I’ll move at my own pace. _You_ are going to lie there and take it like the bitch you are. We’ll see who the 'whore' really is.”

Heaven help him, Erik moaned again. He hadn’t been so uncontrollably vocal during sex in he couldn’t remember _how_ long. He felt a sweat break out over his chest as he opened his eyes, staring up at his son’s face. He could have said anything in that moment, and his keen mind fumbled through every option. Most disturbing of all was the urge to beg: _Harder. Use me. Fuck me. Breed me._

 _Breed_ me? That was new. Erik filed that thought away for later contemplation and said, instead, “I see your true self is coming out, at last.”

It was a cutting compliment. Anger and hurt and disgust and more flitted his son’s pretty features. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Aren’t you, chłopczyk? I’m beginning to wonder.” It was much more effective to goad than to beg, that was for sure. With a bark of frustration, Pietro took Erik’s other leg and dragged him bodily to the end of the mattress before doubling him in half, his knees pressed firmly to his chest. Erik wasn’t as young as he used to be, and bending this way wasn’t as comfortable as it’d once been, either. Pietro was past caring. His hips pistoned, selfishly sodomizing his father.

This was, without question, Erik’s favorite sort of sex: The kind where his partners took no regard for his pleasure and instead used his body like a doll's. It sent his brain into haywire, sparking up every neuron and synapse. He had no control over his moans now and, it appeared, none over his powers, either. He heard the squeal of metal on metal as the bars of his headboard twisted and twined and warped. Maybe it was for the best that Pietro had removed his earrings.

The soft hand cupping his cheek snapped him back into focus, and he opened streaming eyes to see Pietro’s face much closer than it had been a minute ago. Pietro moved to kiss him, and Erik averted his face, his meaning clear: _Do not touch me that way._

It was, evidently, the wrong thing to do. Pietro spat his disgust and it dripped down Erik’s cheek. Pietro seized his father by the shoulders and hauled his upper body straight, snarling and enraged.

Erik wasn’t certain what to expect when their lips collided violently and Pietro kissed him forcefully; hungrily. Saying 'no' was no longer an option, apparently. He was dangerously close to losing all control of the situation, and the thought excited him. He could scarcely keep up with his son’s frantic movements, but that was hardly surprising. _Nobody_ could keep up with Quicksilver. The best one could hope for was to hang on for the ride.

When Pietro thrust his tongue into his father’s mouth, Erik parted his lips, linking arms around his son’s neck, and took it: both the organ in his mouth and the much larger one pounding his ass. It was a sloppy kiss; messy and painful, all clacking teeth and thick, violating tongue as his son plowed into him. This _hurt._ All of it hurt. Pietro's body was a weapon of pain as it tore into him, and Erik relished every moment of it. “So you’ve finally found a way to please me after all,” he taunted, bright-eyed, when, tasting his own blood. Pietro pulled back a fraction to frown at him. “That’s-- _nn._ So good...” It seemed he was out of words. It _was_ good. This was good. Was this the best lay he’d ever had in his life?! If that turned out to be the case, Erik would be forced to laugh at himself.

Pietro was so aggressive, two decades worth of pent-up anger and frustration flooding free as he shoved his father back onto the bed and clambered like an animal on top of him, burying his teeth in his father’s neck. “You like that, tatuś? You like pretty little twinks using you like the scumbait you are?” There was a manic gleam in Pietro’s firebright eyes.

“Yes,” he hissed between his teeth, arching his back for Pietro to bite harshly into his chest, again and again, leaving rings of marks and occasionally breaking skin. “Oh God _yes_ ; chłopczyk, you are so good, you make your tatuś so proud--” He lost track of the languages he was speaking; they all tangled in his mouth and poured out like blessings. “Give me more; fuck me harder--”

Pietro’s palm struck his spit-wet cheek in a ringing slap. “Shut up,” Pietro demanded. “You know what I think? I think you’re a filthy fucking pervert who gets off on ruining lives. You love tearing your children apart and putting us through the blender, ruining us in every way. You want to make us as fucked in the head as you are. You won’t be satisfied until we’re gibbering, drooling mad, the both of us."

Oh, _why_ was this so good? Why did every nerve in Erik’s body crave this: to be seen, understood, undone to this very base level of himself?

“Oh I _am_ filthy,” he agreed, near delirious in agonized pleasure. “I am exactly as you say.”

Pietro let out a strange noise that might have been a sob, then grabbed his father by the hips, jerking him with impressive strength as he wrenched his cock out of Erik and flipped him over onto his stomach, as though Erik's muscular body were no more substantial than a scarecrow’s.

“Don’t want me to see your face? Don’t want me to watch you cry?” Erik guessed, and knew he was correct by the ten fingernails piercing his hips, stinging.

Pietro grunted and shoved at the small of his father’s back, forcing him to lose his balance and sprawl chest-first on the bed, bouncing his hips like a bitch in her rut.

Pietro seemed to recover from his emotional outburst in a heartbeat. “Where shall I cum?” he asked, panting. “Hmm? Maybe I should cream your insides and plug you up; make you carry my spunk all day. Or maybe I should paint your face and forbid you from cleaning it off. Let the whole world know what you made me do. Any suggestions, tatus?”

“Mm,” Erik wriggled his hips, dragging his cock on the soft flannel of his quilt, craving friction. The question was arousing enough, but... “Did your Johns ask you the same thing? I bet they did. You’re not original enough to come up with such filth on your own."

With a scream of rage, Pietro struck him hard, slapping his lower back; striking closer to his kidneys than his ass. There were safe ways to spank someone, and that _certainly_ was not it. Erik’s grunt of pain was genuine. It was concerning that the question-- was Pietro _trying_ to hurt him?-- should make his cock drool so wetly onto his blanket. Did he _want_ to be hurt? Erik hadn’t gotten to where he was today by allowing people to damage him more than he had to. So why should Pietro be the exception to that rule?

Pietro mounted him again, made clumsy by anger, and his cock jabbed between Erik’s thighs several times over before sinking again into his ass. "Take it like a man!" Pietro barked, echoing his father's criticisms from before. "It's not easy, is it? To be used like the little fuckrag pervert you are. Come on, then; let me see you cum just from my cock up your ass."

Erik sobbed, grabbing for the headboard, which beat against the wall rhythmitically. The blunt head of his son's cock struck his prostate with every thrust and it was too good; far too good to last. He was keening; blathering; driven from his mind from the white-hot pleasure that sang along his skin, making every nerve spark and snap like liquid fire.

How could he hold back from such an onslaught? Erik came hard, spraying the sheets below him as his body arched, chest heaving; he couldn't so much as breathe as the orgasm continued on and on; harder than he'd ever cum in his life. He must have clenched down hard on Pietro, because he felt his son grab onto the meat of his back, groaning, before boiling hot fluid sprayed his insides as his son came inside of him.

Erik collapsed and perhaps lost consciousness for a few moments, because when he came to, Pietro had already pulled out. He sank onto the bed beside his father's still form.

Erik felt warm all over, and he closed his eyes to bask in the afterglow. There was no need to move _immediately,_ was there? He lost track of moments spreading, spiraling on as his soul and body attempted to reconnect; as the world began piece back together again. Pietro, as expected, was far faster with his recovery.

“I hurt you,” Pietro whispered, staring at the bruised landscape that was his father’s body. There was certainly a lot to take in: rings of teeth-marks cratered the older man’s chest and throat; shoulders and back and stomach. Some were streaked with drying blood. 

Along his ribs and hips, there were fingerprints; some quite deep; so purple they were almost black. There were even marks curled around his jaw from forceful kisses to his swollen and bitten-raw lips. And these purple marks contrasted with the crosshatches of deep red scratches that seemed to cover him from chest to thighs and everywhere in between. Erik’s hole was sore from the violent jabbing. He leaked cum in slick drying streaks. He avoided looking too closely, afraid of seeing red in all the white.

“You did,” Erik agreed mildly. He did, in fact, hurt quite a lot. e knew he was in for some true agony after the adrenalyn wore off. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and this had been an exceptional, brutal buggering. “I didn’t know you had it in you, son; I’m quite proud. I think I’d feel very agreeable if you wished to do this again, in fact.”

“You _want_ me to fuck you until you look like a battered housewife?” Pietro sounded incredulous. “You’re an old man. How is this not wrong?!”

“Because I say it’s not. Had I wished to stop you, I would have.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. Admitting defeat to me? I’d have to beat you halfway into a coma before you even considered it.”

This was true. Erik would have endured far greater suffering than suggest his son had the power to rattle him. He would, always, remain cool and dispassionate; exuding confidence and condescension out of every pore. It was how he won every interaction before it’d even begun. It was how he survived, by that old adage: Never let them see you cry.

The fact that he was beginning to suspect Pietro _could,_ hurt him, just made this all the more dangerous. Pietro was unquestionably strong. Pietro knew him; knew Erik far more than Erik had realized. That, right there, was the danger Erik found so intoxicating. That he might finally have met a match.

“Maybe I don’t like the person I became while I was fucking you,” Pietro, ever determined to self-flagellate, remarked. "I don't like being a person that hurts other people, even if that person is _you."_

“You say this, and yet I’ve the strong suspicion that you’ll be back soon; sooner, even, than your sister. I think you enjoyed that taste of power very much, and you’ll want more, faster than you think.”

Pietro couldn’t seem to deny even that much. He looked at his father for a long time before sinking back onto the bed and gazing up at the ceiling.

“There is something terribly wrong with you,” Pietro whispered, brow furrowed. “Something broken. Do you even know what made you this way?”

He said it the way a child might marvel at a serial killer on death row: _What made him this way?_  

There was no simple answer. No singular rape or atrocity that had flipped a switch in Erik’s brain, transforming him from ‘normal’ to a nightmare who fucked his children into submission. He didn't think he'd been born this way... If he stretched his memory back as far as he was able, he recalled a simpler time; gentle, in the verdant Polish countryside with parents who had loved him. Everything turned to ash in the end, so what did it matter? What did _anything_ matter?

Liquid splashed from his eye, wetting the pillow. Excess moisture, was all. He didn't think he was capable of tears.

Did this constitute as pillow talk? Erik did not, as a rule, abide by such silly things. He attempted to sit up and found himself unable to do so, only then realizing how truly vulnerable he'd become. He felt a spike of panic. What had just happened to him? What would Pietro do if he knew his advantage? Was this his age showing, or had something more nefarious occured? Mentally, Erik recalculated every bite; every thrust. Had Pietro done something to him that he’d not been aware of? Was this his idea of revenge, of protecting his sister? 

“Father? Are you alright?”

Pietro, rolling to face him, touched his cheek. Erik swept his face with his eyes, searching for answers, and saw nothing but concern. “You’re all fucked out; aren’t you, papa?” Pietro asked. “Poor thing. Usually it takes five or even six men to get me to _that_ point. I’m flattered.”

"Don't you dare--" Erik hissed through his teeth, struggling, fighting to move, to escape, to be the bigger man. "Don't you even--"

But Pietro only looked at him sadly for a moment before pressing gentle lips to the crown of his head. Standing, Pietro collected his clothing and pulled a blanket over his father's body, then kissed him once more, as though for good measure.

He didn't say a word as he left the room, closing the door behind himself, leaving his father to put the pieces of himself back together again, stewing in the realization that he had, somehow, lost something... Yet being unable to say what, exactly, that something could be.


End file.
